He stopped, turned, and stared back at her disdainfully. “Are you talking to me?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s Rob. Rob Evans. Why? I notice you’re not wearing a ring. You interested in a date, maybe?”
Hoots of laughter erupted among Rob Evans’ fellow workers. Joanna didn’t smile. “I’m interested in knowing whether or not you have a permit to carry that concealed weapon,” she said.
Surprise spread over Evans’ face-surprise followed by dismay. He turned and looked down at his pocket, then back at her. “It’s not concealed,” he said.
“It is,” Joanna said. “It’s not readily displayed in a holster. It’s in your pocket and out of sight. That means it’s considered a concealed weapon and you’re required to have a permit. Hand it over.”
“My gun?”
“Either the gun or the permit, take your pick.”
For several long seconds, Joanna couldn’t tell whether or not Evans would comply. Finally he did. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a.22 handgun. Holding it gingerly by the barrel, he gave it to her. The Saturday-night special-a cheap knockoff-was such a non-brand name that Joanna didn’t recognize the label.
“It’s for protection,” Evans explained. “The job-site was attacked by rioters yesterday afternoon. We’ve got a right to defend ourselves. It says so in the U.S. Constitution-the right to have guns.”
Joanna wondered why it was that suddenly everybody in Cochise County was busy quoting the Bill of Rights to her.
“I’m familiar with the right to bear arms,” she said. “And while federal law allows for that, the criminal code of the state of Arizona specifically forbids the carrying of concealed weapons. Let me ask you again, Mr. Evans. Do you have a permit?”
“No,” he said, as his face turned beet-red. Seeing it, Joanna couldn’t tell if the heightened color came from anger, embarrassment, or both.
“How about a holster, then? Do you have one of those?”
“Sure. It’s in my truck.”
“Suppose you go get it,” Joanna said. “I can wait.”
Evans’ face turned that much redder. “It’s not here,” he hissed under his breath. “I came to work in a car pool this morning.”
While the other workmen watched in stony silence, Joanna expertly emptied the weapon of bullets. Then she slipped both the gun and the ammunition into her purse.
“Tell you what, Mr. Evans,” she said. “Here’s the deal. You can have your gun back as soon as you show up at my office in Bisbee with either a permit or a holster. Until then, I’m keeping it.”
“You can’t do that!” Evans bawled. “That’s unlawful search and seizure.”
“I haven’t written you up yet,” Joanna reminded him. “And I won’t, either, as long as you show up at my office within the next twenty-four hours to retrieve your weapon. In the meantime, I need to see some ID.”
Still grumbling objections, Evans dug out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. While Joanna made a note of the number, she continued talking, speaking loud enough for everyone else’s benefit.
“As for the rest of you-” she told the gawking and fascinated onlookers, all of whom had long since given up any pretense of eating lunch. “I’m sure you all know from what happened yesterday that we have a pretty volatile situation on our hands. How many of the rest of you brought guns along to work today-for protection?”
No one raised a hand. Still, Joanna could tell from the uneasy shifting back and forth and from the surreptitiously exchanged glances that she had hit a nerve, that she had landed on something important. Guns were present, all right-present, unaccounted for, and potentially lethal. And that was the very last thing Sheriff Joanna Brady needed on a Tuesday-for a fully armed construction crew to go after a collection of equally armed environmental activists. She could already imagine a banner headline blazing across the front page of the Bisbee Bee. MASSACRE AT OAK VISTA LEAVES X DEAD. The only thing lacking right then was filling in the number of victims.
“After yesterday,” she continued evenly, “I’m sure tempers are running high on both sides of this issue. We don’t yet know for sure whether or not the demonstrators will be back this afternoon, but I promise you this: There will be a group of deputies here to keep the peace. Not only will they be here on the Oak Vista property, they will also be under orders to confiscate any and all weapons-especially concealed weapons-found to be in the possession of people who do not have valid permits to carry.
“Furthermore, for any of you who may have had run-ins with the law on previous occasions, let me remind you that guns are strictly off-limits for most convicted felons. In fact, in some circumstances, the very act of carrying a weapon may result in a one-way ticket back to the slammer. If that applies to anyone here, I won’t hesitate to help your parole officer ship you straight back to Florence.”
“But, Sheriff,” Mr. Soda Can objected. “Youse weren’t here when it happened, so youse didn’t see it, but yeste’day when them people came after us, we wus nothin’ but a bunch of sittin’ ducks. They could’a creamed us.”
“Could have, but they didn’t,” Joanna pointed out. “And in case you haven’t heard, several of those demonstrators ended up spending the night courtesy of Cochise County. Some were arrested for simple assault; others for assault with a deadly weapon. So listen up. If anyone here goes after demonstrators with guns, the same thing will happen to you. You’ll end up in jail-at least overnight-and you’ll lose your weapons besides. You can count on the fact that, if you happen to be arrested by one of my deputies, your weapons will be confiscated and you won’t be getting them back anytime soon. Understood?”
No one spoke aloud. For an answer, Joanna had to content herself with a series of grudging nods.
“All right, then,” she said. “Which way to find my deputy?”
“Bitch,” Bob Evans muttered under his breath. “I hope you go to hell.”
She looked back at him and smiled. “Not today,” she said. “For right now, I only have to go as far as the barbed-wire fence. See you in my office, Mr. Evans. Either late this afternoon or first thing tomorrow morning. You might want to call, though, first. Just to be sure the little lady is in.”
Back in her vehicle, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief as she switched on the ignition. As soon as the Blazer was in motion, she reached for her radio. “Patch me through to Dick Voland,” she told the dispatcher.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’ve got a big problem out at Oak Vista,” she told him. Over the next several minutes, she brought him up-to-date. “We’ve got to have people out here,” she urged as she finished. “If the demonstrators show up again today, they’ll be walking into an armed camp. They’re likely to be met with a hail of bullets. As I said, I don’t know how many more guns are involved over and above the one I took off Rob Evans, but I’m willing to bet money that he isn’t the only one who came to work today packing a weapon.”
“Do you think Mark Childers encouraged it?”
“He sure as hell didn’t discourage it,” Joanna replied. “Which means in effect that he’s fomenting a modern-day range-war-type mentality where people are going to get hurt and/or killed.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“Not yet. According to his work crew, he’s in town having a long lunch. I wasn’t going to bother hanging around here and waiting for him, but now I think I’d better. In the meantime, I want you to assemble that squad of deputies. Take them from whatever sectors you have to. Since demonstrators showed up around quitting time yesterday, we should have our people here no later than two. That way, if there is going to be trouble, they’ll already be on site.”